


Sleight of Hand and Twist of Fate

by madamnovelist



Category: Homeland, The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Falling In Love, First Time, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, Lesbian Sex, Miranda LOVES her strap, Original Character(s), Scottish Character, Sexual Orientation, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, Strap-Ons, Useless Lesbians, dom!miranda, some blood, sub!Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 13:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30022575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamnovelist/pseuds/madamnovelist
Summary: “What choice do I have?” she breathed, and she couldn’t tell if she was talking to Miranda, or to herself.“Well, a few,” Miranda shrugged, going to sit down on a chair right in front of the bed, crossing her long legs. “You can have the Russians kill you, or the Americans, or someone else fae my organization. Or there’s always suicide, if you fancy so.”
Relationships: Allison Carr/Miranda Croft
Comments: 31
Kudos: 49





	1. Nothing to Win

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is the first part of the Allison - Miranda fic and I am SO excited and worried! It had been amazing trying to get in touch with those characters, so different from Zelda and Lilith, but I'm also very scared because...well, it's just so different! Part two will come out tomorrow if the response is decent ;) I can't wait to hear what you have to say so please use the comments section and make a girl happy!

“Carr!”

The cry echoed in the luxurious house, making the cat going to hide under the couch. A brunette woman tossed a paper bag on the table, then looked around, hands on her hips.

A young girl, around twelve years old, with long curly black hair and dark skin, raised her head from the book she was reading, sitting at the kitchen table, and looked bluntly at the woman who had just screamed, appearing extremely angry, standing in the middle of the room. Unseen, she stretched out an arm, her attention back to the book, and stole one of the cupcakes she knew were hidden in the bag.

“What’s happening, Mama?” the girl asked, faking as much interest as she could, reading and munching relaxedly. Oh, red velvet. Her favorite. Her mother screamed or barked or complained from morning to night. Nothing worth upsetting over, especially while reading a novel that good. And, nine cases on ten, she was angry at her other mother.

“I swear to God, Lara, if your mother –” she stopped and barked again: “Carr! I even brought home cupcakes, but you don’t deserve _anything_!”

“I’m coming, Miranda, I’m coming,” sighed a voice from the adjacent room, and in a matter of seconds, a barefoot stunning redhead appeared, wearing a short dress, carrying a little boy, about four years old, perched on one of her shoulders like a koala, face buried in red curls.

“What is it?” she asked the other woman, the angry brunette, balancing the baby boy in her arms.

The feisty brunette, a slender woman with long curly hair and a pair of big, gorgeous blue eyes – actually shooting killing gazed at the redhead – pointed to the dishwasher: “You put my knife in that damn thing!” she barked, outraged. “Again!”

“It needed to be washed,” the other woman, Allison, explained, rolling her eyes. “You know, especially when it has blood in it.”

“We’ve been over this already, haven’t we, Foinne?” Miranda groaned, grabbing a chair and placing it in front of the dishwasher. She sat down on it, crossing her arms.

Allison sighed: “We’re going down to the beach, what are you doing?”

“I’ll wait for the damn thing to be done,” she muttered. “Skedaddle aff.”

After being married to a Scot for almost three years, Allison did know that Miranda was cordially telling her to leave her alone. She turned to their firstborn: “Lara, sweetie, are you coming with me and Timmy to the beach? Bring your book?”

The girl nodded and got up, not without looking at Miranda. Then, she smiled: “Yes, Mom.”

Miranda walked the short distance between their house and the beach one hour later, finding Allison under the big gazebo, building a sandcastle with Timmy as Lara read, laying on her back.

“Your damn thing turned my knife opaque!” she complained, showing Allison her knife. “Carr, I swear, if you put this into the damn dishwasher again, this marriage is over!”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but again, it needed to be washed. Now, can you please sit down with us and help our son build this?”

“The little Republican lives in your hair, I doubt he wants me to help,” Miranda sighed but sat down anyway.

Needless to say, a four-years-old boy doesn’t have a political orientation, but Miranda called him _Republican_ because she thought his name suggested so. When they had adopted Lara, despite the girl being already nine, Miranda had _begged_ Allison that they changed her name and named her Lara, just because her own last name was Croft, thing that the girl herself had loved. When they had gotten Timmy, he was younger, and Miranda had hoped they could change his name as well, and yet, on Allison's decision, they had kept the one he already had.

“He does live in your hair, Mom,” Lara commented, with a shy smile in Allison’s direction. It was partially true: Timmy – little Timmy, as they called him at home – had a soft spot for Allison and his shyness had him hiding his face in his Mommy’s hair every time something bothered him. Which was like every minute of every day.

“And you always side with your Mama,” Allison sighed, reaching out to smooth Lara’s long curls.

And yet, unexpectedly, Timmy got up from Allison’s lap and toddled to Miranda with a toothless grin. He slumped down on the sand, definitely dirtying his Mama’s black pants, and when he was comfortably nestled against Miranda’s front, he looked at Allison: “Can you come here too, Mommy?”

Allison slid closer with a sweet smile, and Miranda, apparently forgotten the knife-in-the-dishwasher feud, grinned at her: “Yes, come to the dark side, Foinne.”

Timmy, apparently boring with playing in the sand, laid down with his head on Allison’s thigh, and reaching up to play with a red lock, asked: “Mommy?”

“Yes, little man?”

“Can you tell the story of the two spies who fell in love?”

It was his own way to ask for the story of his mothers falling in love. A story both he and Lara had heard tons of times but loved every time like the first. Even Lara, trying not to be seen, put the book away and rolled on her stomach, concentrating on her parents.

Neither Miranda nor Allison could possibly deny their children that story.

“Start when Mama proposed!” Lara urged.

“No, no,” Timmy protested. “Start from Berlin!”

“You mean from when I dragged her from the hospital half-naked with a bleeding shoulder?” Miranda grinned, and Allison groaned: “Croft, for the love of God!”

“What? It’s the truth. I dragged you from a hospital and you _were_ wearing that dirty, bloody hospital gown, remember?”

“Even if I would forget, you’re always here, reminding me,” Allison pointed out, wearing a saccharine smile.

“That’s why you married me,” Miranda grinned back.

“Oh, we’re still married? I thought you wanted to call your lawyer, or so you mentioned, back in the kitchen.”

“No,” Miranda corrected. “I told you that was your last chance _before_ I called my lawyer,” and she tugged at a long, red curl, looking almost blonde, considering how much time they spent under the sun.

“And then?!” little Timmy prompted, impatiently.

“And then I railed her, hard,” Miranda grinned, blatantly.

“ _MI – RAN- DA_!” Allison roared, going to cover Timmy’s ears with her hands, while Lara both laughed and blushed. Little Timmy giggled softly, of course totally oblivious to what was going on, and Miranda looked at him: “What?”

“Nothing,” he blushed.

“He loves your quarrels,” Lara stepped in, and Timmy nodded. “So, this story?”

“But you already know the story,” Miranda complained. “I saved her saucy ass in Berlin –” and here, Miranda was interrupted by the second “Miranda!”, courtesy of Allison. “And then we escaped here. End of the story.”

“And you fell in love,” Lara offered, but Miranda laughed: “Oh, don’t exaggerate, now. Our is a gentlemen’s agreement, and then out of the purity of our good hearts, we sheltered you and the little Republican, here.”

Allison couldn’t help but laugh, but Miranda rectified: “No, not even a gentlemen’s agreement, I just decided to keep her, because she’s annoying but cute.”

Allison shot her a killing gaze: “I’m not your property, Miranda.”

“Says who, Carr?” she grinned. “I saw you, I took you, therefore, mine,” she shrugged. Lara couldn’t help but busted laughing: “You _so_ love Mom!” she commented.

“Oh, please,” Miranda snorted. “I barely tolerate you, nighean gaoil, let alone loving her.”

Allison pinched her shoulder, but no one believed her. Not even Timmy. He just demanded: “Now the proposal story, please!”

“Well,” Allison started. “Your Mama asked me to marry her in such a sweet way. We were in that restaurant down at the Pier, and she hid my ring in a chocolate cupcake.”

“Yes,” Miranda immediately stepped in, ready to say her part of the story. “And you know how your Mom is with sweets, right? She was about to eat the whole thing, ring too.”

“It was _chocolate_!” Allison protested. Every time the same argument. And, naturally, Allison closed up the story with the same comment as always: “You are such an insufferable woman, I don’t know why I said yes!”

* * *

Timmy finally washed, sung, lulled to sleep, Allison was laying on her bed, glass door leading to the balcony ajar, utterly engulfed in the novel she was reading.

Her life was so different, now. Well, something was just the same: she’d never go anywhere without a designed purse, not even to the beach or the local market, for instance, but the rest, was totally different. She used to go to work every morning in the first-line defense of the United States of America, in her 1000 plus $ outfits, her high heels, her perfectly curled, perfectly dyed hair, make-up natural but on point. She could deal with stress, her brain worked faster than anyone else’s, and while she did this, she referred precious information to Russia. She slept regularly with one of her colleagues, an older man, and even that, was part of a bigger plan. She didn’t know attachment or affection. Every true feeling was seamlessly folded and hidden in a box, secluded in the most private part of her life. A part no one had access to.

Of course, a tale as old as times, spies are exposed, sooner or later, and out of the blue, Allison had found herself in a circle of events which had ended up with her shooting her own shoulder to fake and external aggression (after killing the two men with her) and a strange, snarky Scottish brunette kidnapping her from a hospital.

 _That_ had been the turn of the screw.

Now, she was a mother, and a wife, and a content human being. Used to walk around in summer clothes, simple skirts with tank tops. It was impossible to recall that she _had_ , at some point, killed people, because, since that rainy Fall of three years before, something sweet and clingy had been unlashed inside of Allison.

The mattress moved next to her, and immediately, her book slipped from her own hands, was closed and tossed on the nightstand, and she spotted her wife grinning next to her.

“Hi, Foinne,” she greeted as if they hadn’t spent the whole day together.

“Hey yourself,” Allison played along, getting comfortable against the cushions. Miranda fetched her as aggressively as she usually did, launching herself on Allison, and started sucking her neck, one of her hands sneaking down to stoke between her legs, gently but purposefully, over the lace of the thong the redhead was wearing.

“Impatient much?” Allison giggled, even if she very well knew how much Miranda was, and when the brunette’s fingers moved the lace and brushed over wet, naked folds, both of them let out a groan.

“Oh yes, like this,” Miranda praised as Allison unconsciously spread her legs for her wife. The brunette discarded the maxi t-shirt Allison was wearing and her nakedness caused Miranda to groan once again. She immediately attacked her naked breasts, nibbling and biting, moving to suck Allison’s perky nipples in her mouth. The taste of the American on her tongue had her addicted the first time she had kissed her, and she couldn’t get enough of it, no matter how many times, in how many positions, they had had sex in three years. She didn’t need to ask her if she liked it, because Allison was doing the best she could to keep down the moans, so she wouldn’t wake up the kids.

Miranda kept on lavishing her chest as she reached the closet of her nightstand and stumbled it open.

“No,” Allison whined. “Oh, no, don’t stop.”

Miranda kept on stroking between her legs, blowing on the nipple she had just sucked: “Not gonnae, baby. It’s going to be even better in a few seconds.”

“No, no strap,” Allison asked, enveloping Miranda in her arms and bring her up, face to face, kissing her slowly and languidly. She was a strong woman, probably as much as Miranda herself (sometimes, Miranda thought even more, and that’s why she was her perfect match), but sometimes, after three years – such long and short time together – she craved closeness, and affection. Miranda kissed her back and pouted: “Why no strap? Daddy wants to rail his girl,” she stated, pinching her clit gently. Allison emitted a sound in between a moan and a groan: “You know baby girl can’t resist _Daddy_ ,” she played along, cupping Miranda’s cheek to bring their face close once again, smothering with soft, tentative contacts, her wife’s teethy, feral kisses.

“I sense a but in that,” Miranda retorted, biting down on Allison’s jugular – _hard_. Well, it wouldn’t be the first she drew blood from her. Allison _knew_ Miranda loved blood on her.

“It’s not a proper _but_ ,” Allison reasoned, wrapping both arms around Miranda’s neck, smothering her long, curly chocolate hair.

“Before I lost all my body’s fluids here, Ally, if you don’t mind.”

Allison chuckled and pecked her lips, Miranda readily catching her bottom one between her sharp teeth. “For once, I just want us,” she concluded, voice barely audible, some sort of shyness showing.

Miranda’s sexy grin came back, as she discarded her own underwear, sliding her whole body down Allison’s.

The redhead hummed softly, lost on Miranda’s mouth, kissing and nibbling, tongues embracing each other as she curled one thigh around the brunette’s sharp hip, intertwining the other legs with her wife’s. When their crotches made contact, Allison sighed and threw her head back, exposing the gentle curve of her back to the hungry mouth of her wife. Thrusting their cunt to brush together, in a rhythm well known and always, _always_ well appreciated, Miranda went to work on her neck, biting and sucking, holding her hostage by the back and the hip – Allison’s definitely softer and suppler than hers.

“Slow down,” Allison moaned, hard to think, let alone to talk. “You always leave marks on my neck, and Lara is old enough to _know_ , and Timmy – _ah, yes,_ \- is always asking questions…”

Miranda didn’t stop her ministration, while Allison talked, and neither she did when she complained: “See? I told you. We should have stayed childless.” And then, unexpectedly, she flipped them over, laying on her back, Allison straddling her, and Miranda helped her movements, guiding her hips, the redhead’s cunt sliding through Miranda’s pelvis and brushing against her clit, wetness mixing together.

The brunette’s hands went to immediately cup Allison’s small, soft milky breasts, and she couldn’t help but breathe: “Oh, yes, you are so good!”

This wasn’t exactly her kind of sex – more like Allison’s. She wanted rush and blood and Allison whining, a prisoner under her. She craved her wife, to have her impaled on her favorite strap, or pinned down on the mattress. But this, this was good as well, even if she indulged her wife just once in a while. To feel her this close, this supple, scented woman who had been a target and had instead changed her life, the former CIA who now walked barefoot on the beach, rocked their son to sleep, braided their daughter’s hair, sang beautifully in the shower, kissed her every morning, made her want to bring her cupcakes. Always had.

And even if she refused to acknowledge it, she thought hearing Allison’s strangled cries as she came, Miranda herself had changed, too. And she tilted her head to kiss the scar on Allison’s shoulder, sucked on the skin as she came as well.

“Must you be this clingy after _every single_ time we have sex?” Miranda snorted, mindlessly messing with Allison’s hair, a messy bob barely reaching mid-neck, so different from the straight, mid-back hair she sported when they met. The redhead laying on her chest, cheek nuzzling her naked breast. She was peacefully laying on Miranda’s chest, their legs intertwined, her hand firmly wrapped around the brunette’s waist.

“Every couple cuddle after sex,” Allison mumbled, not moving her face from Miranda’s chest. “Must you complain about everything?”

“You used to lay like this with your other… lovers too?” Miranda asked, voice vague, still caressing Allison’s hair. The question elicited a snort: “C’mon, you know the situation. Don’t play jealous.”

Miranda lowered her head and smashed her mouth against Allison’s, kneading them together, tracing the seam of it with the tip of her tongue. Then, in the darkness of the night, in the security of their bedroom, she dared show a bit of insecurity: “Satisfied?” she asked, tickling Allison’s naked belly. The redhead let out a chuckle, and hugged her tighter, kissing her mouth, her jawline, her cheek, and going to whisper in her ear: “Always. You think I would have married you, otherwise?”

Miranda grinned and stole another kiss: “I know you wouldn’t have, Foinne.”

Allison rolled on her belly, pushing her chest on Miranda’s, her elbows boxing the brunette’s head as she looked at her with abandon.

“ _Please_ ,” Miranda snarked, rolling her eyes. “Now don’t go all sappy on me, Carr, or I won’t fuck you for the rest of the week.”

Allison giggled – another thing completely different from the past because Allison Carr could smile, chuckle, occasionally even laugh, but she never giggled – and replied: “You would never. But okay, I promise I won’t go sappy.”

They just looked at each other, and somehow, that was enough.

They had been able to disappear. As simple as that. Allison didn’t know how that had been possible – but they had made it. They had gotten a chance for another life, a brand new one, and now, she was even able to sleep without the fear that someone would get inside their house to slaughter her and her wife in their sleep. The only explanation she had given herself was something so sappy the previous Allison would have laughed hard: apparently, their story wasn’t over, yet.

One thing was for sure: Miranda Croft’s plans never failed.

All was well.

She was clumsily walking through a hall wearing a damn hospital gown. Opened on the back.

The human brain is such a strange organ. She is actually walking in a dimly lighted hall, her high heels clicking on the ground, the presence of the brunette woman too close to her back – a cold, hard gun pressing between her spine and her scapulae, and all she could think about was that she was wearing an extremely uncomfortable outfit. She almost regretted she wasn’t wearing the tight skirt and the silk blouse she had on that morning. In her defense – she was CIA. She didn’t know another way to dress, but of course, when the brunette had stepped into her hospital room, literally dragging her away, she hadn’t had the time to change and do her make-up. She had expected anything but what had actually happened.

At first, she had been approached as she was washing her hands by a Russian sentinel, assigning her what presumably was her last task (not that she intended to do that, considering that by the quick math she had done, still at the sink of the public restroom, had been that the probabilities that she was to survive were probably less than zero); then, to avoid being killed by both the Russian or the Americans, she had killed her own bodyguard and then had shot her own shoulder. Okay, from the outside it can sound insane, but at the moment it had been at least convenient. Of course, they had transported her to the hospital, bullet planted in her shoulder, and before she had to sustain another interrogation about the dynamics of the shooting, a brunette had shown up.

“Allison Carr, I presume,” she smiled, as if they were meeting at a tea party. “Nice to meet you. Shall we go?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Allison scolded, words practically spitting out, both because of the intrusion and the pain.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the strange woman shrugged. “Again, shall we go?”

“Where?” Allison asked, but the woman grabbed her wrist. “I don’t have time for a wee chat, let’s go.”

Allison didn’t know what was happening. She had briefly thought about Saul, still, if not right outside the door, nearby, but the woman, as if she was _capable_ of reading minds, whispered in her ear: “Don’t worry about your man. He’s not a problem anymore.”

Now, Allison still didn’t know where they were. They had gotten off the building, taken the subway, and approached this apparently abandoned building. All of this, with a bullet in the shoulder, nude high heels, the hospital gown, and a disturbingly purple-colored trench on.

The brunette opened the door of an apartment and shoved her inside. Allison fell on a chair placed next to a window, immediately moving the trench to check on her shoulder, bleeding copiously. Panting heavily, she looked around, noticing that the room was full of light but contained barely any furniture. The woman was standing in front of her, one hand buried in the pocket of her slacks, the other still pointing the gun at Allison.

“Well, I must say,” the woman considered. “CIA is hard material. You look barely bothered by the fact that you’ve literally just been kidnapped.”

Allison looked at her, sternly: “Who are you?”

“Miranda Croft, nice to meet you, but I doubt you feel likewise.”

“Smart,” Allison breathed. “And what do you want from me?”

The brunette – which, Allison noticed, possessed a pair of deep, striking blue eyes – grabbed a chair and placed it in front of Allison, sprawling on it and playing with the gun, apparently unbothered by the fact that Miranda was bleeding right under her nose. “Do you know Saul Berenson?”

Allison didn’t reply and didn’t even gasp.

“You don’t betray yourself,” the brunette commented, showing her teeth with a grin. “What a good little spy you are. Well, of course you know him, you were shagging him, if I’ve been properly informed.”

She got up and reached the little kitchen. “Gonnae make some coffee. Care for some?”

“You are so sure of yourself you don’t even tie me up?” Allison asked.

“And where would you like to go? You’re hurt, you don’t have an arm on you, and you’re wearing fucking heels. I can easily guess that I’m definitely faster than you.”

She got herself busy with the coffee, while Allison quickly considered that she was right. If – a very big if – she even got outside, where was she supposed to go?

The brunette was still talking, while making the coffee, getting two cups ready even if Allison hadn’t accepted, neither denied.

“So, back to our story. We are a… let’s say private organization, and dear old Saul asked my boss to kill you, which is my wee task for the month.” Then, she stopped: “One or two sugars?”

“I’m bleeding,” Allison reminded her, feeling like she was stating the obvious.

“Yes, don’t worry about that, we’ll that care of that.”

Allison really hoped she would do so before she bled out.

Miranda turned and smiled at Allison in that way resembling a grimace of pain and handed her a cup full of steamy coffee. Allison had no other choice but to take the cup, one of her arms shaking, saying “Thank you,” more out of a reflex than an actual expression of gratitude.

She was about to die (she wasn’t sure if because of the shoulder or because the brunette was going to shot her) and she was having coffee with this strange woman who had kidnapped her.

The least she could do was smoke a cigarette, so she grabbed her designed purse (unceremoniously scattered on the floor) and she started rummaging in it.

“Oh, right, you’re looking for a cigarette, aren’t you? Are you sure you can, in your conditions?”

Allison’s head snapped up and Miranda smirked: “I’ve been following you for months, I know your habits.”

“Right,” Allison snorted, and it’s one of the first things she’s said. “I should have expected that.”

“But you weren’t expecting your lover to betray you, am I right?”

Allison made a sound, not confirming, neither denying. Then, she raised her head, looking into those baby blue eyes. “There’s just something I’m not understanding,” she said, trying to change her position so her shoulder would ache less. “You’ve been given the task to kill me. Am I correct?”

“Aye,” the brunette nodded.

“Okay… So why are we having a coffee and chatting amiably? You’ve had various chances to do that.”

“Aye again, you’re right, Allison. I haven’t killed you and I don’t even particularly want to.”

Allison snorted. “C’mon!”

“Believe it or not, I don’t want to kill you.”

Another one of those smirks, and the woman showed her white, pearly teeth.

“I want to quit,” she shrugged. Allison listened closely, alternating puffing of cigarette with sips of her coffee and she didn’t move her eyes from the gun the brunette was still pointing at her. “And you are the perfect free-pass.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m getting what you’re trying to say. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a fucking bullet in my fucking shoulder!”

Instead, Allison did. She did really well, and she wanted to tell the brunette that lives like hers weren’t made for quitting. You can’t stop being a spy, you can’t stop being a token in someone else’s hand, and she was experiencing it nowadays. But, she didn’t say anything, of course.

“I’m trying to say that we’re about to disappear. You and I. You were the perfect task because far from New York and a definitely long one. But of course, as soon as I’m out of the grid, you should be as well.”

Now, Allison is anything but stupid. On the other side, she’s far too smart and cunning for her own good, so she definitely didn’t point out that she could have killed her and disappeared all the same. What did she want from her?

“If you’re looking for any money –” she starts, but the strange woman interrupted her laughing. “Oh, no, a thasgaidh. I’ve got plenty of money, dinnae worry about that.”

She got up, made the gesture of smothering the texture of her slacks, and smiled: “Let’s start with removing that bullet, what do you say?”

For the first time, Allison’s face showed some emotions, looking at her _puzzled._

“I’m sorry if I sound suspicious, but do you have the skills to do that? We should be in a hospital…”

“Aye, I’m aware of that, but we’ll do as we can. And don’t doubt my skills. Now, remove that coat and stand up.”

Of course, Allison didn’t have another choice. She dropped the trench on the chair, stood up, and looked at the other woman – _Miranda_.

“On the table,” the brunette instructed, and Allison discarded her shoes and unstably walked toward the table. The floor was probably dirty, but she guessed she couldn’t be too picky. Nothing mattered: this strange woman, the fact that she had been kidnapped, Saul’s latest betrayal – what she felt was just _pain_. The painkillers they had given her at the hospital had worn off and she was starting to wish that the brunette would really kill her.

Even the fact that she was wearing the hospital gown, open on the back, was incidental, considering the situation, and she just snorted when the brunette commented: “Well, can’t say it’s been a braw day, but from this perspective, it’s definitely getting better.”

“I need help to climb on the table,” she said, and Miranda unceremoniously picked her up under her armpits and helped her slid on the cold surface. Then, she moved to the cabinet and brought back a bottle of whiskey and a dishcloth.

“Want a sip?” she asked Allison, sliding to sit on the corner of the table and offering her the bottle. “It’ll help.”

Reluctantly, Allison drank and passed the bottle back to Miranda, who took a sip as well, then help her lie down on the table.

“Wait for me,” the brunette instructed, and Allison tried to relax while the brunette warmed her knife.

 _Relax_. What an absurd concept, considering the situation. The probabilities the brunette would cut off an artery were disturbingly high, or, in a better case, she would die for an infection. If, of course, the CIA or the Russians (or Miranda’s organization, if what she’s told was true) weren’t going to find them.

Miranda came back, an apologetic expression on her face: “I’m afraid this is going to hurt a wee bit.”

“No shit,” Allison groaned, rolling her eyes. “Do what you have to do.”

“It’s better if you bite on this,” she suggested, passing her the cloth, and at that point, Allison started contemplating another way to die: hepatitis.

To give Miranda any credit, anyway, she worked fast and precisely, and as much as it hurt, it didn’t require a lot of time for Allison to pant heavily as Miranda studied the bullet between her two fingers.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“How do you care?” Allison spat, even if very weakly.

Miranda rolled her eyes and bent, picking the redhead on the injured side. “Lean on me,” she instructed, as she carried her precariously on a bed.

“I think you need to sleep for a bit,” she murmured, and Allison was out before she could say the last word.

She opened her eyes, blinking in confusion as slowly her brain proceeded to put the objects in front of her into focus. She tried to move but immediately, an excruciating pain assaulted her shoulder like a stab.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and immediately, the brunette woman – Miranda – appeared next to her, painkillers and a glass of water balancing in her hands.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” she smirked, and without asking for permission, invaded Allison’s personal space, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing her the medication and the water. Allison got up a bit, leaning on the sane arm, and Miranda helped her swallow the pills and drink.

“You good?” the brunette asked, and Allison just shrugged. Miranda kept talking: “It’s normal, in your condition, to experience just a wee bit of pain.”

“ _A wee bit_?” the redhead groaned. “Hurts like a fucking bitch!”

“Aye, speaking of that – how did you got shot?”

Allison narrowed her eyes: “I shot myself,” she said.

“Oh,” she softly gasped. “You did?”

“I had to,” Allison groaned.

“Well, this is well radge!” she exclaimed. “I’m impressed. And this is even kind of sexy, if I can say so.”

Allison rolled her eyes, ignoring the antics of the woman. She didn’t know how smart it was to trust this woman, but she was in so much pain, and she just sighed: “Why haven’t you killed me? Just tell me the truth.”

Miranda just grinned. “Oh, the truth, you want? I can tell you. Victor wanted me to kill you, and this is enough reason _not to._ ”

Allison sighed and let her head rest against the cushion. She didn’t know how to react to all of that, her normally rational brain unable to analyze the information and work out the proper way out like she always, always did.

“I might even pay you a plane ticket to whatever you want to.”

Allison didn’t reply. She was about to tell back that she was able to afford a plane ticket, and thank you, but she realized that it probably wasn’t the best, for her, to buy an airplane ticket with her credit card, and she doubted she had more than 50 or 70 bucks in the bag she had grabbed when Miranda had so kindly kidnapped her.

Kidnapped. Was that the correct term?

“What choice do I have?” she breathed, and she couldn’t tell if she was talking to Miranda, or to herself.

“Well, a few,” Miranda shrugged, going to sit down on a chair right in front of the bed, crossing her long legs. “You can have the Russians kill you, or the Americans, or someone else fae my organization. Or there’s always suicide, if you fancy so.”

“You are mental,” Allison groaned, passing her hands on her face.

“Oh, maybe I am. But let me tell you this: if my plan works, and make no mistake, my plans _always_ work, in a couple of weeks top I’ll be on a beach in Tahiti and I’ll finally start a new life. One in a _bikini_ ,” she ended with a smirk.

“Just like this?” Allison asked. “And they’ll let us be? They think I’ve betrayed them. They think I was a Russian spy.”

“They _think_ ,” Miranda underlined, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes? What’s your point?”

Allison laid back against the cushions, trying to find a better position: the painkillers were finally kicking in.

“You betrayed anyone, CIA, the Russians… a woman. Alone. Believe me, I’m impressed,” she grinned, and leaned forward, resting her weight on her arms, on her thighs. “And I’ve seen you, with your tight pencil skirts and you designed purses, looking entirely prime and proper. A woman alone had fucked up two of the most powerful things in the whole world. Can you believe it?”

Miranda’s admiration was so whole and loud it was almost touchable. Allison couldn’t help but feel ashamed about it. It didn’t matter, did it? She was still there, in that room, wearing that fucking hospital gown, her make-up ruined, much like her own confidence. She just said, voice toneless and tired: “I just believe that I’m currently bleeding out on a rickety bed, making small talks with a strange woman, who allegedly kidnapped me. _And_ , I’m wearing a fucking hospital gown.” She sighed: “Plus, your comments about my clothes sounded like insults.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that, before we elope, I’ll find you some clothes. And I wasn’t insulting you.”

Allison snorted again and closed her eyes for a second.

_Before we elope._

Miranda’s voice cut the silence again: “Do you want something to eat? I’ll offer you a drink, but I don’t know how smart that would be, in your conditions.”

Allison looked at her: “Why are you so kind to me?”

Miranda laughed, a sound hard and high, almost pitching. “I’m not kind. I could tell you that this shack is mine, even if temporarily, and since I’m Scottish, hospitality is a part of my DNA. But the main reason is the fact that I don’t want you to drop dead here, you know? It would kind of spoil my plan.”

Allison groaned and rolled her eyes – _again_ – as she tried to change position and shook her head: “No drinks. I’m feeling rather nauseous. And sleepy again. And I don’t really like sleeping in front of strangers.”

Miranda grinned and got up again, her target the cabinet over the sink, in the kitchen, where she fetched some pills and a glass of water. She brought it all to Allison: “Take it. For your nausea.”

“You’re probably killing me with drugs. Actually, I’m expecting you to.”

Miranda snorted: “Americans. You really don’t trust me, uh? Anyway, I’ll go out for a while. You can rest without my eyes on you, how does it sound?”

When Allison woke up, a few hours later, the sun was gently sliding down, filling the room with golden light. She turned over, and even if the shoulder ache, it was definitely slightly better.

She hummed softly and that voice came: “Hello again, Sleeping Beauty. How are you feeling?”

Allison turned her head to see Miranda taking off her coat, placing a paper bag on the table, and handing the redhead a folded sweatshirt with matching pants. A _yellow_ sweatshirt.

“Yellow?” Allison complained. “Do I look like a fucking bird, to you?”

Miranda grinned: “More like a fox.”

“Oh, shut up. It’s yellow!”

“I’m sorry it’s not Versace –” Miranda started, but Allison rolled her eyes: “I didn’t expect it to be Versace! I expected it not to be fucking yellow!”

“The charming alternative is the bloody hospital gown if you prefer. Looks fashionable.”  
Allison snorted and lowered her eyes: it wasn’t just a Brit expression. The gown was definitely bloody, and she was starting to feel stinky and sweaty. She raised her head and looked at Miranda, every act dropped. “Can I take a shower?” she asked, and Miranda nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

Just in that moment, Allison realized she hadn’t used the bathroom all day. Her bladder was full, and she wished to wash her hands. She got up quickly, but a dizzy spell caught her, and she was about to lose her balance, but Miranda was ready and caught her across her midriff.

“Okay, CIA,” she sighed. “I can help you.”

“I can do it alone,” Allison muttered, but Miranda didn’t pay her any attention, she helped the redhead through the bathroom, carrying the yellow sweats as well. Allison started to quicken her pace, but Miranda squeezed her slender waist. “Hey, I get you’re CIA and everything, but easy does it, okay little spy?”

“I hate you,” Allison said through gritted teeth. Why couldn’t she walk alone? The problem was the fucking shoulder, and she felt totally weak.

“Do you need any help?” Miranda asked as soon as they were in the bathroom. “Can I be left alone at least while I pee?”

“As the lady wish,” and with one of her usual grins, she disappeared.

The simple task of lowering on the toilet and pee required an effort Allison’s body didn’t possess, at that moment. She felt tired and weak, and even if the shoulder’s ache was temporarily absent, she was still experiencing dizzy spells. She took care of business, then she struggled to put back on her panties, a groan leaving her lips. She barely had time to lower the hospital gown that Miranda came back into the room.

“Don’t you know what privacy is, in Scotland?” Allison barked.

“Oh, dinnae be like that,” Miranda grinned. “I have such a pure heart that I’m gonnae help you with your shower. You can’t possibly do it alone.” 

Cursing the universe, and her damn idea of shooting herself, Allison had to convene that the woman had a point. If peeing had been such a hard job, she couldn’t imagine showering.

“Okay,” she finally conceded. “But don’t look.”

“I won’t,” Miranda smirked and went to open the shower. “How would you like the water?”

“Scalding.”

“Oh, who could have told,” Miranda grinned, selecting a large, fluffy towel – something unexpected in such a minimal place – from a cabinet next to the sink. “CIA who fucked up _both_ Americans and Russians is a pillow princess!”

“Do you ever shut up?” Allison sighed, while she discarded her gown and the panties, leaving both items in a little pool on the floor, arms immediately going to cover her breasts and her crotch.

When Miranda turned, of course, she couldn’t let the occasion to make a comment slip: “Oh, such modesty. I almost find it fascinating.”

Allison didn’t reply – she didn’t have the strength – and Miranda helped her into the shower, touching just her arm and the small of her back in a great expression of respect Allison definitely wasn’t expecting.

When the hot water hit her skin, her face and her hair, Allison let out a long, deep sigh, turning her back to Miranda in order to stop covering herself and be free to start soaping her own body.

Still, she could definitely feel the brunette’s look on her back, ass and legs.

“Don’t. Look,” she reminded her. Miranda’s snarky voice came back immediately, chuckling: “Oh, not looking. I’ve seen prettier girls, don’t get all excited.”

Unable to refrain herself, Allison spat: “Are you a lesbian, or what?”

“Still labeling things in the XXI century? And they say you American are so…evolved.”

Allison instinctively turned to look at her over her shoulder, ready to underline how that was not an answer, but caught the brunette red-handed.

“You are _so_ looking, Miranda.”

“Oh, you finally learned my name? And I’m just trying not to let you slip and get yourself a concussion.”

“So you admit you _are_ looking.”

“That is not looking, _looking_! But if I was – and I am not – I would definitely comment how saucy your ass looks.”

No one had ever called saucy her ass. In another condition, Allison would probably have smiled.

The redhead moved to reach for the hair conditioner and almost slipped over, due to another dizzy spell courtesy, but Miranda readily caught her around her middle, the texture of her shirt- now soaking wet – brushing the underside of her naked breasts, and Allison shivered.

“You were saying, a thasgaidh?”

After a few minutes of silence, while Allison brushed her hair, Miranda commented again: “Can you reach all parts? I can help. You know, just something for you to take into consideration.”

“You’ve helped enough, thank you.”

“Says the one who refuses help and then almost kills herself to reach the hair conditioner.”

Allison turned down the water and before she could turn around, Miranda had the towel wrapped around her body. When she turned around, she found the brunette had discarded her shirt and was currently wearing a black tank top, nicely displaying her toned, freckled arms. She felt a shiver.

Preposterous – not to label things, but she _did not_ like women.

**END OF PART ONE**


	2. Nothing Left to Lose

A few days later, the situation hadn’t gotten better.

Allison’s shoulder still hurt, and she spent her days dozing off and complaining about her pain.

On their fifth day, Miranda exaggerated with Allison’s painkillers dose.

“Oh, crap,” she muttered, as soon as she realized it, the redhead confused on the couch. She brought her some iced lavender tea, sitting on the edge of the rackety bed: “Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.”

Allison didn’t take the offered mug, she just stayed there, eyeing the brunette. That morning, due to an increase of the temperature, they had their windows open, and Miranda was wearing a tight tank top, tones arms on display, her glasses, and her long, curly hair up in a bun on her head.

“What?” Miranda shrugged.

“I’ve never seen you wearing glasses,” Allison slurred. “Or with your hair up. Or in a tank top.”

Miranda grinned: “I only see you wearing this crappy sweatshirt.”

“That’s because you can’t choose decent clothes,” she hummed, and grabbing the mug, she let her body fall back.

“Hey, hey, easy,” she urged, supporting her and helping her to read.

“Are you tryina kill me?” Allison slurred, American accent finally slipping out. “I don’t feel so good.”

“No, CIA, I’m not goanne kill you, I’ve told you already,” Miranda sighed. “I’ve just exaggerated with your painkillers dose, my bad.”

Allison just grunted and laid down.

“I have to take off your sweatshirt to check on your wound, dear,” she instructed, and Allison grinned: “You want to undress me.”

“I don’t want to undress you, I want to check on your wound, I told you already.”

Allison moved to sit up a bit and raised her arms: “Okay, undress me, I don’t think I like women, but it’s been so long,” she sighed.

Miranda removed her top, leaving her in her plain cotton bra. She couldn’t help but let a look linger. She had realized how hot Allison Carr was as soon as she had stepped in that hospital room, with her sharp profile, her big eyes, her long hair, and her supple curves. Normally, she knew Allison would have scolded her for looking so openly at her breasts, but now she just grinned.

“Ya lookin’ at me,” she purred. Then, “I’m sleepy,” she added.

“I’ll check your wound, give you some more water, then I’ll let you sleep.”

She started removing her bandage, using her little knife to cut the sticky, hard edges of it. The pads of her fingertips were probably tickling her naked skin. Allison squirmed a little, giggling.

“Hey, Foinne, calm down or I’ll cut you!” Miranda scolded her, but she chuckled anyway. Allison squirmed again, giggling, and despite her great experience with knives, it slipped from her firm hand, and cut on her perfect white skin.

“Hey!” Allison exclaimed, and a trail of blood appeared.

“Hell, sorry,” Miranda muttered, and then she bent forward and sucked at her skin, licking off the blood.

“Hey! You _sucked_ on me!”

“I was just cleaning you up,” Miranda shrugged. Then, she smirked again: “If I’m being honest, not the part of you I wanted to suck.”

Miranda _knew_ sober Allison would have probably shot at her, but drugged Allison just giggled. “How do I taste?”

“Wonderful,” Miranda “grinned. She got closer and sucked at her neck, near her pulse point, and Allison let out a small moan. Then, she pushed Miranda away from her shoulders, smirking: “Personal space.”

“I wanted another taste,” Miranda tried to argue, but Allison literally yawned on her face.

“So sleepy,” she slurred, trying to rest against the cushions. “You poisoned me.”

“Aye, aye,” confirmed Miranda, rolling her eyes and helping her getting comfortable. She was about to leave the room, when she heard Allison: “Miranda?”

“Aye?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Going to Tahiti, I told you. What do _you_ want to do?”

Allison sighed and closed her eyes, giving the impression that the subject was closed. Then, she whispered: “Take me away with you.”

The following morning, after a twelve-hours long sleep, Allison woke up in the instant Miranda got inside the apartment, carrying a box from a bakery. How did she get into a bakery, shopping as anything happened, was out of her scope of understanding. She had her ways, obviously. Or someone was going to show up in ten minutes to slaughter them both.

“Oh, look who got up. It was like living alone, for the past twelve hours. How did you feel?”

“You didn’t poison me, after all,” Allison smiled, voice and eyes full of sleep.

“You’re obsessing over this thing, aren’t you, Foinne?”

“Not to be dramatic or anything, but do I have to remind you that you kidnapped me?”

“I wouldn’t say kidnap,” Miranda shrugged, filling the kettle with hot water and putting it on the stove. “I saved your ass, technically. A rather sexy one, if my opinion matters.”

Allison made a dismissive gesture with her hand: “Do you always say bullshit?”

“That you have a sexy ass is not bullshit,” Miranda considered, pouring steamy water into a cup. “But believe me, if I wanted you dead, you’d be a delicious meal for worms, right now,” she told her, literally _launching_ a bag of tea in the hot water.

“How fascinating,” Allison commented, sighing and leaning back against the cushions again.

“Need some painkillers?”

Allison nodded. “It’s better, but yes. Not like yesterday, tho,” she underlined, and for the first time since they’ve met, they shared a smile.

“Not that you can have it, on an empty stomach.” She passed Allison the mug, the painkillers – actually, just one pill this time – and a chocolate cupcake.

“What’s this for?” Allison raised an eyebrow.

“A way like another to apologize for cutting you with my knife, yesterday.”

Allison’s eyes widened. “Really? I don’t even remember. But thank you.”

“Nothing,” Miranda shrugged, and hopped on the feet of Allison’s bed. “You seem like a chocolate kind of girl.”

And she was right.

“Have I said or done something embarrassing, yesterday?” Allison asked after a while, munching on her cupcake.

Miranda just smirked: “No, nothing particularly embarrassing. Are you feeling better?”

“A bit,” Allison nodded. “Still sleepy.”

“It’s the afterward of the overdose. Sleep, now, okay? I have to go out for a while.”

 _Again?_ was what the redhead was tempted to ask, but she bit on her tongue, instead. “Yes, but first…” She started, sighing deeply. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Miranda frowned, sitting cross-legged on her usual chair as she watched Allison finishing off her cupcakes and lightening up a cigarette.

“You are doing _a lot._ You just wanted out, and I get it, but there is no need for you to wait that my shoulder is healed, to ensure that I’m okay. You could be on the other side of the world already.”

Miranda just shrugged: “Yesterday you asked me to get you out of here, and I intend to do it.”

“I did _what_?” Allison gasped, almost suffocating on the last bite of her cupcake.

“I told you I was gonnae escape to Tahiti and you asked if you could come.”

Allison just nodded, careful to not make any comment. Later, when Miranda left for a shower, and was finally alone, free of painkillers and pain itself, her mathematical brain started working. If she knew the brunette even just a bit, she was sure she wasn’t going to ask her again. And yet, if she thought about it, what other choices did she have? Miranda had been right, when they had first met: the Russians or the Americans were going to get her, it was just a matter of time. Did she trust this strange woman? She wasn’t sure if she did. But to be honest, she didn’t believe Miranda was going to kill her. She had had _multiple_ occasions of doing so, by now. Maybe she was just keeping her alive to finally bring her to one of the two organizations? She didn’t see what good could it do. The one who could seek personal revenge was Saul Berenson, but Miranda had already shown how much she disliked him.

She wasn’t sure if she could trust her, but it was clear as daylight how that Scottish woman, who flirted with her, accidentally cut her with her knife just to bring her cupcakes in order to apologize, was her best option. And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure she was able to do it alone.

She had always been faithful to herself in the first place, but both Americans and Russians had used them for their own purpose. Saul herself had fucked her when he had pleased, and as much as she had used him as well, her pride was a little damaged and she could finally see it. Probably, for Miranda had been pretty much the same. But now, there with Miranda, it was different. In a life where she had always been a token, even when convinced to be the one, leading the game, Miranda didn’t treat her like that. Allison was clearly Miranda’s why out of that life, but did she really need to wait until her shoulder was okay? Giving her painkillers? Watching over her sleep? Offering to her, a way out as well?

She didn’t know if she could trust her, but she definitely was her best option, and about this, Allison had no doubt whatsoever.

* * *

It was just a bit more than a week, but inside of that apartment, time seemed still. Miranda came and went as she pleased, and Allison never asked where she was headed. She could have gotten out as well if she so pleased: her shoulder had completely recovered by now, and she felt physically good, overall, if not a bit tense. Anyway, she didn’t feel like it, and she just lingered around the apartment, for the first time waiting for something else – _for someone else_ – to decide for her.

She had smelled in the air that morning that something was off, and she had paced the whole apartment waiting for Miranda to be back, without knowing what to expect.

Miranda came back that night, right before sunset, right before Allison started to feel significantly worried.

“What are you doing?” she asked Allison as soon as she got into the apartment.

“Wondering where the hell you were and if someone had gotten you,” she shrugged.

“No one will get me,” Miranda grinned, looking at her, head to top. “Here, change,” she said, throwing her way another paper bag. “There’s some underwear in there too, I think I’ve guessed the size of your tits,” she grinned. “After you change, I have a surprise for you.”

Allison rolled her eyes at the tits comment and locked up in the bathroom to peek at what was in the bag. A lace bra and thong, deep green, and Allison smiled, delighted: nice. Very nice. However, the smile died on her face when she saw the clothes: a pair of Prince of Wales tight pants and a printed tee.

“Are you crazy?” she asked, getting out of the bathroom completely dressed and taking a small pirouette to show Miranda the pants. “I mean, just a Scottish could put together an outfit like that. I look _awful_!”

“Bloody American,” Miranda said through gritted teeth. Then, she added: “You can choose something else for tomorrow while we go to the airport.”

Allison dropped the sweatshirt she was still holding.

“We go _where_?”

“To the airport.” And she placed on the kitchen table an airplane ticket and a passport. “New documents and your ticket. Everything’s sorted out.”

Allison reached out for the new documents, but she let her hand drop. She turned to Miranda and said the first, stupidest thing that came to her mind: “I guess it costed a lot of money… I’ll pay you back. Somehow.”

Miranda grabbed her wrist in a gesture much gentler than what Allison would have expected and shrugged: “I don’t care about that. Fuck money, I have more than enough. I just want to know if you’ll come with me.”

“When you’re serious you lose the Scottish accent,” Allison considered, utterly out of the blue.

“Will you?” Miranda asked again, ignoring the redhead’s comment. “I know someone who knows someone who knows a renter. House on the water, do you like water?”

Allison didn’t say anything, she took a step back and her back gently hit the wall. She put both hands on her face and inhaled deeply for a couple of minutes. Then, she raised her face and just nodded.

Then, with that small gesture, the atmosphere inside the room shifted.

Miranda got closer, pressed her opened palms on the wall, on both sides of Allison’s head, effectively boxing her in.

“What are you doing?” the redhead complained, voice a rough whisper, trying to avoid looking at those incredibly deep blue eyes. “You are definitely into my personal space, Miranda.”

“Gonnae take you to bed,” Miranda said, straightforward like she usually was. “I’m tired of playing cats and mice. I want you under me.”

Slowly, a hand moved closer to her face, cupping her jawline and running her finger through it, she caressed her lips.

“I don’t like women,” Allison simply gulped.

“So you said… but I can tell you’re hot and bothered… and I know you’ve wanted me to kiss you for a while.”

“That’s not true,” the redhead objected, trying to move her head, but Miranda gently but firmly kept it in place.

“Don’t run away from me,” she prayed, and their eyes locked. Allison didn’t have time to react: before she could think, Miranda’s hand cupped the back of her neck and their lips met in an ardent kiss, an affair made of mouths, of teeth, of tongues. Miranda swirled her tongue with hers and then sucked her lips. She kissed exactly like she did anything else: demanding, intemperately, shamelessly.

And she was right, oh if she was right: in the right moment their lips touched, she realized she had been waiting for Miranda to do just so. She discovered another thing: for once in her life, she was sick of thinking. Sick of estimating. Sick of controlling. Slowly, almost shily, hooked her arms behind Miranda’s neck, pressing her body against the brunette’s, and she hummed contently when she felt their breasts press together. She didn’t know about having sex with women, but kissing one was extremely pleasurable. She got lost in the kiss, and Miranda knew exactly when she needed to be touched and reached down to forcefully kneading her ass.

“You like it rough?” the brunette asked, as she pushed her to lay back on her bed. Miranda had a peculiar way to treat lovers, she was feisty and strong-willed, but every one of her actions had a bittersweet depth Allison knew she could enjoy.

She wanted to nod, wanted to deny, but when Miranda left her mouth to start sucking on her neck, she threw her head back and moaned. Miranda quickly lifted the hems of Allison’s shirt and smirked: “We can take these clothes off, you don’t like them anyway…” and she got rid of her top, throwing it to the other side of the room.

Despite everything, despite that absurd situation, Allison giggled, and when she found herself wearing just that lace green bra, under Miranda’s hungry eyes, she felt shy like she never had, during sex.

“I made a good choice,” Miranda praised, cupping Allison’s side with a warm hand, her thumb brushing over the white flesh in a soothing way, and before going straight to the breasts like she wanted to do, she took a few moments to bite and suck on Allison’s belly, while she discarded her pants.

Allison wondered briefly why she wasn’t taking off them as well, but as if she was reading her mind, Miranda grinned and commented: “Let me watch for a second how good I am at choosing underwear.”

Out of the blue, Allison became thirsty. “Do I have the only one naked, here?” she breathed, and she slowly started unbuttoning Miranda’s black shirt. “If we have to do this thing, let’s do it right.”

“This _thing_ ,” Miranda replied, taking off her shirt quickly. “Is going to be the best sex of your life.”

She lowered her body, to prove what she had just said, and brushed her nose over Allison’s clit, through the lace of her panties.

“Holy crap!” Allison exclaimed, grabbing a handful of Miranda’s curls and spreading her legs out of reflex.

“I’m naked and you are overdressed,” Allison complained again, eyeing Miranda, wearing just her grey lace bra and her pants.

“We can take care of that,” Miranda granted, and she discarded the rest of her clothes, before going to take care of Allison’s bra and taking it off as well.

She moved on the redhead’s body, thirsty for her moans and her gasps, and started sucking on her breasts, as she sneaked a hand inside her panties, groaning loudly when she found her wet.

“Oh, Christ,” she muttered on her breasts. “You’re almost too wet for someone who said she doesn’t like women,” she pointed out, and Allison didn’t have willingness, couldn’t find her voice, she just wanted, needed, craved Miranda.

“Are you going to do something about that?” she groaned. “I can’t wait.”

“What if I want you to beg?” Miranda said, grabbing Allison’s hair and bringing their mouths together once again. She started playing with her clit while they kissed, but when Allison’s moans started to get too loud, Miranda took away her hand and brought her fingers to her mouth, sucking on them greedily.

“Hey!” Allison protested. “That was nice.”

“Calm down, Foinne. _Nice_ won’t even begin to cover what I’m about to do to you. I’m going to take you as a man would,” she announced, and after another wet, passionate kiss, she moved from Allison to reach for her purse. After fumbling into it for a while, she took out a pink strap on, eliciting a gasp from the redhead.

“You carry a strap on _inside your purse_?” Allison asked, puzzled, breasts coming up and down as she panted.

“Yes. Do you want to discuss it now?”

The only reply she got, was Allison supporting her weight on her arms and spreading her legs.

“How do you like this?” Miranda asked, and immediately, Allison replied: “I want to ride you.”

Miranda sat back immediately against the headboard of the bed, strap on full display, and she ran her hand over it a couple of times, excitement written all over her face.

“Come on, Foinne, I’m losing my mind,” she prayed, even if Allison could have bet, she wasn’t the praying kind. Allison positioned herself over Miranda’s strap, on her lap, and the brunette immediately helped her, placing one hand on her side, while the other grabbed her ass.

“Take it,” she commanded in a tone so low and husky, Allison for a second thought she could come just by that. She lowered herself and let Miranda penetrate her, slowly, inch after inch, moaning softly as she steadied herself on Miranda’s shoulders.

“Holy fuck,” Allison breathed, moving her head back and trying to move her hips in a circular motion, slowly, trying to get used to the strange feeling. She watched Miranda’s crazy gaze, as she licked her lips, her undeniably beautiful breasts in the pretty bra. It was so strange, so unexpected, but she was so excited, so horny, so tired of trying to find an explanation for everything.

She raised up a bit, then down again, and Miranda couldn’t help but groan: “Good girl, just like this.”

Encouraged by the words, Allison tried it again, letting out a louder moan.

Once, twice: after the third try, Allison started to literally jump on Miranda’s strap, up and down, up and down, and Miranda grabbed her by the hips and brought her closer, grabbing one perky nipple between her mouth and sucking on it hungrily, cupping Allison’s ass to increase their movements.

She probably wasn’t going to come – it happened rarely, for her, and it didn’t matter how good the sex could be, sometimes for her it was hard to reach the peak. Instead, as Miranda grabbed one hip, guiding her to move on the strap, and simultaneously sucked on her tits as she flicked her clit, she felt the familiar tingle of the orgasm raise in her belly, and she threw her head back, ready to feel the most powerful, satisfying orgasm she had in a while.

Not that she was going to tell her. That woman was already too cocky on her own.

After, while the night came slowly – their last in Europe, in Berlin, in this life - they laid on the rackety bed they knew so well, side by side, naked breasts rising and falling thanks to deep breath. Then, looking at an alarmingly wide water stain on the ceiling, Allison asked: “Tell me about this house on the water?”

They hadn’t had sex since that last night in Berlin.

Not for lack of trying on Miranda’s part, clearly. Despite Allison’s initial resistance, their sex chemistry had turned out to be perfectly on point, and Miranda was _dying_ to do it again. She eyed Allison every minute of every day, and almost anything she wore, anything she did, reminded Miranda of how she had looked while she had been inside of her, how her voice had sounded while she came. She was obsessed, she had gotten a taste and now she was ready to feast.

The redhead had kept her distances during their last day in Berlin and while they had transferred to the airport, and even if Miranda had never met someone with a better poker face than Allison Carr, she had been able to sense her tension, almost as she could have tasted her fear. She hadn’t done anything to ease that fear, because even if sometimes she felt for Allison something bittersweet, in her chest – the closest thing she had ever felt to tenderness – she wasn’t used to comforting people. Heck, she wasn’t used to people.

They had visited the restroom at the airport, right before their boarding, and while they had been washing their hands, side by side at the sinks, overlooking a big mirror, Miranda had gotten closer and stole a kiss, a simple, hurried peck on the redhead perpetually pouting lips, and this gesture – even slightly out of character, for Miranda – had ended into a confession.

“I had a panic attack, once,” Allison told, wiping her hands, then applying some sanitizing gel on them. “Right after I understood that they were about to find out. You know, about me. Well of course Sa-” she stopped abruptly. “ _He_ didn’t know it was me, the mole they were looking for.”

Miranda didn’t say anything. No one would have recognized Allison, at that moment, wearing a simple pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, hair up in a ponytail, face hidden by a big pair of sunglasses.

“A panic attack in the bathroom. I spent half an hour on that bathroom floor, thinking that I was about to die.” She snorted and threw away the paper. “So weak.”

Miranda grabbed her shoulder forcefully and made her turn, so they would face each other.

“You are not weak,” she simply stated. “You understand me, Carr? You are not weak.”

She cupped her jawline and raised her head: “And you dinnae have to be scared. Remember what I told you? My plans _always_ work.”

“Of course I’m not scared,” Allison retorted, doing a great show of rolling her eyes, but at last she broke into a soft, tiny sob.

Miranda sighed. “Thig an seo, a ghaoil,” she murmured, and took Allison between her arms, squeezing her tightly.

When they had seen _their_ house, once in Papeete, Miranda had seen Allison let go for the first time. She had been delighted, seeing their own private pier, connecting the shore with their stilt house.

It was just past dusk, the pier and the first floor of the house lit with candles and white lights. If paradise on Earth existed, Allison was sure of it, it was that place.

“Miranda!” she exclaimed; an excitement Miranda didn’t know she possessed. “Look over there!” she demanded, but the excitement died on her face and she turned abruptly mid-pier, sneakers in her hand, and looked at the brunette, eyes two pools of indefinite feelings.

“What?” Miranda asked, and she couldn’t help but get closer, the need she was feeling for that American woman something she had never experienced before. “Is everything okay? The lady doesn’t like the house?”

“They won’t find us,” Allison stated. Then, a doubt: “Right?”

“They won’t,” Miranda assured, a voice so sure and confident, it was impossible not to believe her. “I promise.”

“You kidnapped me and I followed you literally to the other side of the world, I don’t absolutely know what your plan is, and yet…” she stopped and sighed deeply, inhaling the scent of the ocean. “I trust you. Let’s go inside.”

The inside was, if possible, even better than the outside. Allison had never seen a prettier house, and even if her life was a big question mark, at that moment – what was she going to do with her life, how will she earn money, was she going to hide forever? - she felt like she could rest, at least for a while. What other option did she have, at the moment, except to stay with Miranda?

After settling in and having a light, local dinner in their patio – facing the ocean, but that house faced the ocean on four sides – Allison had retired in one of the two bedrooms, and she was laying there, on her back, in the darkness, considering what had happened to her life in the blink of an eye.

Was she able to start fresh? Of course she was. She had done so a thousand times, in Iraq, in Berlin. Considering her personal history, it was nothing strange, nothing out of character. But the truth was, as much as she _could_ start fresh, she was just _so_ tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of fighting. Tired of protecting herself. Tired of not trusting, of holding back. Tired of being alone.

She got up, not minding that she was just clad in a pair of knickers and a sport bra. She tiptoed in the dark house, slowly, paying attention to where she put her feet, trying to learn the new spaces in the darkness. She didn’t hesitate, not even for a second until she placed her hand on the handle of Miranda’s door. What was she doing? She took a sigh, but _her_ voice came from the inside, startling her: “Come on in, Foinne. I was waiting for you.”

Allison got inside, and Miranda was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the picture of relaxation, a smug look on her face.

“You were _waiting_ for me?” the redhead whispered, even if there’s just the two of them in the house.

“I just knew you will come. I know you, Foinne.”

Allison giggled: “Oh, you know me, do you, now?” she approached the bed and gingerly sat on the edge of it.

“You can lay down if you want,” Miranda offered, shrugging. She made everything look like it wasn’t a big deal, and such antics made a great contrast with Allison’s previous life, where everything had a weight, everything had an importance. “I won’t bite. Unless you want to,” she grinned.

Allison laid down, paying attention to keep some distance between herself and the brunette. The bed was absolutely big, and they were both rather small people. Allison let out a sigh, moving her head so she could face the ocean, the glass window ajar. She watched the table with the four chairs, on the terrace facing the beach. It would be nice, in the morning, to have a long breakfast, sipping orange juice reading a novel.

How much time had passed until she had had a real breakfast, instead of a hurried espresso at the vending machine at her office? How long, since she had lost time in the pages of a book? She couldn’t even remember.

“What are you thinking about?” Miranda murmured, from behind her shoulder. She must have gotten closer, for Allison could feel her hot breath on the back of her neck.

“What does it mean?” Allison murmured. “Foinne, I mean.”

“It means fox, in Gaelic.”

She reached out and placed her hand on Allison's back, gently but firmly drawing her close until her back was flushed against the redhead’s back. Allison felt the brunette sniffling her hair, while the hand placed on her hip moved a bit further down and cupped one of her butt-cheeks. Unintentionally, Allison let out a little moan.

“Are you going to put up that _I-don’t-like-women_ once again? Because I want you, and by now we’ve been around enough that you know how I am when I want something.”

Allison giggled and rolled over, facing Miranda, and in the dim light of the bedroom, she looks almost sweet, even if she did know that the brunette was anything but sweet. She herself drow closer and pressed her lips to hers.

She had never, ever been attracted to women, in her whole life, and this, she knew for sure. But there was something about this woman, and this much, she knew. Memories of that night in Berlin took over her mind and she didn’t want to get lost into that sex again to forget, but because in some ways, she wanted to be close to Miranda. To a woman who had _kidnapped_ her. But of something she was sure: she was much safer with Miranda than with anyone else.

Their mouths working together, Allison let herself discover how much she loved to tangle her long fingers in Miranda’s curls as they kissed.

“It’s true, you know,” Allison mumbled on her mouth. “I don’t like women, never had.” She sucked her bottom lip as Miranda’s hand trailed up her torso to cup one of her breasts. “But I definitely liked having sex with you.”

“Same,” Miranda confirmed, trying to move away the sport bra and almost immediately losing her patience: “Could you please take off this damn thing? I want to suck on your tits.”

The redhead felt a rush of wetness between her legs. Her stack of previous lovers had never been particularly forward or passionate, and she had often found herself boring during sex. One of the things she loved the most about Miranda, was her way to make her hot and bothered just with her words.

She moved from the embrace to take off her sport bra, and in no time, Miranda had her mouth on her chest, keeping her steady by the ribs side and sucking one of her nipples greedily. Allison threw her head back, getting out a deep, throaty moan and Miranda chuckled, blowing her on her wet nipple and making her shiver.

“So much fuss for not liking women, what do you say?”

Allison locked her thighs around Miranda’s hips and replied, trying to talk in between moans: “We’ve established that I don’t like women, but I enjoy having sex with you – _oh God right there, don’t stop._ ”

Miranda had moved southern, licking a path from the redhead’s breasts down to her belly, leaving small, sharp bites all over her soft stomach. Miranda didn’t use praises, but in her kisses, in her bites, she intended everything: how happy she was to have her there with her, how sexy she was and how absolutely delicious she felt under her lips.

When she reached the top of her knickers and started to lower them, Allison tensed up.

“Wh- what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Miranda retorted, looking at her, a smooth expression on her face, and then took the rim of her underwear between her teeth and started to lower them down. “I wannae eat you, I’ve been wanting to do so for a while.”

She used her hands to help her mouth with the task and finally uncovered the soft, swollen pink flesh she craved so much. She could still feel how tense Allison still was, and she started running circles on her thighs. “Relax,” she said. “You’ll love this, I promise.”

Allison rolled her eyes: “I’ve gotten oral, before. I’m not _afraid_.”

“Women do it so much better,” she grinned, and without further words, she started eating Allison up, doing it greedily and aggressively, much like she did anything else. She traced her labia with her tongue, up and down, then sucked on her clit, inserting two fingers in her opening.

It took Allison a few minutes to relax: then, she hugged the brunette’s neck with her thighs, bringing her pelvis up to increase the contact with Miranda’s mouth, letting her hands caress the brunette’s scalp.

When she came, hard on Miranda’s tongue, she grinned: “I don’t know about women, but you can definitely do this,” eyes closed, trying to relax.

“I knew you’d like it,” Miranda hummed, gently biting her thighs, and Allison heard her fumbling with something until the brunette trailed something cold and rubbery up her leg.

Miranda laid next to her and moved her hair, whispering in her ear: “On your hands and knees.”

“But I’ve just orgasmed,” Allison tried to object, but Miranda unceremoniously grabbed her by the hips and rolled her over, then slapped her ass: “Up.”

Allison had no other option but to obey, and she positioned herself, couldn’t help but pushing back to rub her awaiting center against Miranda’s strap.

“Here we go,” Miranda smirked, and slapped her ass again. “Ready for Daddy’s cock, baby girl?” she tested, and as much as she was expected, Allison moaned and whined: “Take me, please.”

Another slap.

“Take me _what_?”

Allison snorted. “Take me, _Daddy_.”

There was no way on Earth Miranda was going to deny her when she was saying _Daddy_ with that tone, so she penetrated her, all the way, hard and deep.

She kept her steady, grabbing her hips rather forcefully, and it didn’t matter if she was going to leave Allison bruised, in the morning. She kept on slamming inside of her, the dildo sliding through pure wetness, and every time the strap bucked back, it brushed against Miranda’s clit.

It was _amazing_. Easily the best sex in Miranda’s life.

The sounds Allison was making were obscenely arousing, her ass and back a delicious vanilla in the moonlight.

They came together – something it rarely happened, for Miranda at least. Seeing all that white, creamy flesh, she bent and left some kisses and love bites all over Allison’s back.

Then, they laid there, spent, in each other’s arms, and Allison trailed her fingers all over Miranda’s breasts, like a child discovering the world for the first time.

“Well,” she purred. “Never particularly thought about it, but those are…”

“Yes, boobs are great,” Miranda grinned, and pinched one of Allison’s nipples. The redhead groaned: “Don’t do that, or I might want to do it again.”

Miranda moved up to kiss her, tongue, teeth, and all.

“I don’t see where the problem is.”

As she was about to doze off, arm hugging the redhead’s soft waist, nose buried in her hair, Miranda realized that for the first time in her life, no matter how hard she had railed Allison, she hadn’t fucked her. Not only, at least. For the first time in her life, she had made love.

The woman who had fucked up Russians and Americans both. Warm, naked, spent in her bed.

Not that she was willing to tell her. Not now, not never. She just unconsciously brought her closer.

Lara Allison Croft was a girl with a QI definitely above average.

She was walking home in the pink light of the night, her satchel bag heavy on her shoulders (she had probably exaggerated at the book shop again….), hugging the book she had been reading in the park close to her chest. She was actually looking forward to the seafood dinner her mother had promised her. She glanced at her wristwatch: she was actually thirty minutes early. Never mind: she could even go swim for a while. A _great_ start for a weekend.

She opened the front door with her own keys, fishing her cellphone in her short’s pocket to text her best friend, while she shuffled absently across the house, directed to the kitchen, to get herself a soda. She didn’t even _walk_ into the kitchen because she froze on the threshold: her Mom was perched on the kitchen counter, the t-shirt she was wearing tore apart at her shoulders, red hair tussled, as she moaned rather loudly with her legs around the waist of her Mama, who was wearing a bikini top, chocolate hair up in a ponytail, and a pair of shorts, as she rocked her hips between Mom’s legs.

Ah. The strap again.

She rolled her eyes: thinking about it, the soda at the café and a bit more of reading were a great idea.

She was pretty used to it, she considered as she walked back outside. And even if she found it cringe, she reasoned, every time it happened, a part of her was so happy that two sociopathic, strange, and mysterious people like her mothers had at some point found each other. They _never_ tell each other – it was never a spoken sentence, always something different: how sometimes she spotted her Mama looking at her Mom when she was sitting on the porch, Timmy curled, asleep, in her lap. How she called her Ally, even if it happened rarely. How her Mom wore red just because Mama would smile and call her Foinne. It was the Scottish nicknames, her best way Miranda knew to express what she felt, as if she felt protected when she used her native language, the language of her childhood. She called her mother _Foinne_ , and Lara herself _Nighean gaoil_ , and she had looked what that meant as soon as she had learned how to use the Internet, and she had discovered that she called her wife _fox_ and herself _beloved daughter_. Even how she called Timmy _little Republican_ – it could probably sound sarcastic, but Miranda loved Timmy to pieces, exactly like she loved Lara, and she _worshipped_ Allison.

She loved them to the point of working on Timmy’s insecurity, teaching him to swim, to be more confident around people, to the point of teaching Lara herself how to use the knife (she had cut herself, once, and Allison had almost had a panic attack).

And Allison? Allison was hands down superstar Mom. She did movie marathons with them, she cooked, she tucked them in, she sang for them.

Her parents weren’t good people, not in the normal way, at least, in the normal conception in which people are considered good. Lara wasn’t naïve, she knew what spies do, and it was even possible the one of them, or even both of them, had killed someone. She had never asked, neither did she care. They had probably saved each other. For sure, they had saved her.

* * *

“Come here, sexy bitch,” Miranda grinned, but Allison shook her head: “No. You know it.”

“But I’ll hold you close, nothing’s gonnae happen to you, Foinne.”

“Don’t care,” Allison shook her head. “You’ll probably let me _die_.”

“I would never,” Miranda shrugged. “That would mean taking care alone of the monsters. And I could probably tolerate Lara but the little boy… a-ehm…”

“Timmy.”

“Ah, yes, the Republican. How would I do with him alone? I don’t wannae walk around with a constant backpack.”

Allison laughed, deep and light in the night. “He’s the sweetest and you love them to pieces. As I do.”

“Okay,” Miranda shrugged. “I like them. I tolerate you,” and she swam quickly toward her wife, sitting on the ladder connecting the back of their house with the waters of the bay. Despite three years living literally _inside_ the ocean, she hadn’t been able to fight her fear of the water.

It was the middle of the night, and sometimes when the kids were asleep, they escaped to enjoy the slightly warmer water and some time alone.

Miranda made leverage on her arms and got out of the water, practically laying her wet body on Allison’s.

“I tolerate you too,” Allison smiled, then grinned. “Look at you,” as she cupped her cheek lovingly. “Seeking some cuddles?”

“Don’t say bullshits,” Miranda scolded her. “Or I’m gonnae pick you up and throw you in the water.”

“Don’t you dare!” Allison gasped, and instinctively tried to climb back, but Miranda kept her hostage by the hips.

“I told you before, Carr,” Miranda smirked. “You are mine.”

Allison raised her left hand and showed her her left hand, a simple rose gold band with a little diamond throning on her ring finger. “This implies something like that, yes.”

“That’s a pact. A gentlemen’s agreement.”

“Yes, yes,” Allison rolled her eyes, and she was to add something more, but Miranda lifted her burst up some more and planted a passionate kiss on her wife’s mouth. Allison kissed her back immediately, cupping her cheeks with both hands, seeking gentle entrance with her tongue. Miranda allowed immediately, moaning and bringing Alison closer.

“Listen,” the redhead whispered, breaking the kiss.

“I don’t wannae listen, I wannae fuck you,” she declared and sneaked her hand between their bodies to move away her panties and touch her cunt. Allison pressed a foot against her belly and moved her away, back in the water with a gentle _splash!_

“Hey!” Miranda complained.

“Listen for a second. Now that we’ve been married for so long, and we have children together –”

“For the last time, Carr,” Miranda groaned. “Not a marriage. A gentlemen’s agreement.”

“Oh, _shut up_! Now that we’ve been married this long, would you tell me? What was our plan, when we left Berlin?”

After a few moments of silence, Miranda nodded: “I might even tell you. At some point.”

* * *

The sun was slowly rising for the waters, making the world pink.

Allison grabbed Miranda’s shoulders and looked straight into her eyes.

“What?”

“Say it,” she pleaded.

Miranda raised an eyebrow: “Again, _what_?”

“What… what you feel for me.”

The look in her eyes was so straightforward and sincere, Miranda couldn’t look away either bring on the table another joke.

_I love you._

_You changed my life._

Slowly, a smirk appeared on Miranda’s face: “Nah, I won’t,” she grinned, but catching the redhead around her middle, she kissed her lips slowly.

“Love in the time of Miranda Croft,” sighed Allison, linking her arms around Miranda’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scottish Glossary:
> 
> Thig an seo, a ghaoil: Come here, my Love;

**Author's Note:**

> SCOTTISH GLOSSARY:
> 
> Foinne: Fox;  
> Skedaddle Aff: Leave Me Alone;  
> Nighean Gaoil: Beloved Daughter;  
> Wee: Little;  
> Aye: Yes;  
> A Thasgaidh: My Dear;  
> Braw: Great;  
> This is Well Radge: (something like) It's Awesome;  
> Fae: From.
> 
> (wannae/gonnae/dinnae: want to, going to, don't.)
> 
> INSTAGRAM & TWITTER: madamnovelist


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